


May Our Futures Never Fade

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Comfort, Crying, Depression, FOB, LOL ME hhhh, Mental Breakdown, Other, Peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: So, bipolar disorder fucking sucks. And here’s a little one-shot of Pete having an episode, and Patrick helps him out like the best friends they are. Also, it’s got some references to some poem pete wrote c. 2015, including the title.AKA, my look into Pete’s depressed mind. (or rather, my depressed mind, I guess)





	May Our Futures Never Fade

I am sitting in Patrick’s recording studio. The color purple flashes behind my eyes and suddenly it feels like the floor has been swept from under me. We are here. We are here. I am here.

I feel my breathing start to pick up, deeper and quicker and Patrick turns around from his spot at the computer.

“Pete?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to figure out what is going on. “Are—are you okay, man?”

“No. I don’t know.” I gasp.

“Woah, Petey. Slow down.” he says quickly, rushing to my side. “Breathe.” He’s seen this all before in the sixteen years he’s known me; he’s seen the worst of it, even. I know he knows what to do but I don’t think he has to. The panic never lasts as long as it used to, and I can deal.

As soon as my breathing is stable he sits back on the couch. “What was it this time?”

I chuckle. I’m still shaky, though, so it comes out trembly and small.

“Are you okay?” he asks again. I am thinking.

“Do you want to know something really fuckin’ deep?” I ask. He shrugs.

“Sure. I mean. If you want.”

I pause.

“...and?” he prompts, folding his arms above his head.

“Never really thought I’d make it here.” I say. I laugh because I am afraid if I don’t laugh I’ll cry. “It’s twenty- _fucking_ -seventeen, Patrick.”

“Yeah. It is.” he chuckles.

“No, you don’t understand.” I push. “Kids like me aren’t supposed to make it as far as I have.”

“Come on. You know that’s not true.”

“Nah. I know it is—Patrick, I tried to kill myself. I was on, like, forty pills at a time there. I—I fuckin’—fuckin’ gave up, ‘trick. I wasn’t supposed to make it.”

“But you did. So you were supposed to make it.” he sighs. “Pete, I’m not going over this again. You deserve to be alive.”

“No! No, I get that now. I’m just saying—how crazy is it. We’ve come so far, I don’t know. Never thought I’d be here, is all.” He wasn’t understanding, though, and I turned and reached for his shoulder.

“I am fine.” I say, loud and clear. He looks up at me and I smile. He is perfect. An angel sent from heaven or whatever exists above us to sing with his angel voice and make people happy. I feel the lump in my throat form again. I am so damn lucky to exist in the same world that he does.

“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re about to burst into tears.” he says. He looks nervous and I am afraid I might be scaring him. I back up.

“Really, I’m okay.” I say softly. He shakes his head.

“I hate to play therapist here, Pete,” he sighs, “but I’m your best friend. In the whole fucking world. I probably care about you, as a person, more than MJ does, and there’s no offense there, really. So, you wanna tell me what’s up?”

His cynicism makes me feel at home. Safe. Like it was ten years ago and he was the only one who could make me want to be alive. I smile, sitting back on the couch.

“Fine.” I say.

“Wanna start?”

“Yeah. Yep. Okay. I just think it’s crazy how... how ten years ago I was so sure I wouldn’t make it to the next year. I thought I was a dead end.”

“You aren’t.” Patrick says. I roll my eyes.

“I _know_. But I always think about what could’ve happened. You know. If I succeeded.” my voice cracks and I look Patrick up and down. “Where would you be? Would you remember me?”

“I’d like to think I would.” Patrick murmurs. “I don’t know where I‘d be.”

“I came so close, ‘trick. I was like that Bob Dylan song.”

He hums the words. “Knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door.” His voice is like honey or gold or something. Or maybe I am going crazy again.

“Can I have a fuckin’ hug.” I whisper. He looks at me sympathetically and nods. I fall into his arms and I know he can feel me trembling against him.

“Dude... are you okay? Really okay? ‘cause, ‘cause you seems a little...” he trails off.

“Unstable?” I finish into his sweater.

“Yeah. Pete, can you please tell me what’s going on?” he pleads. He sounds scared and now I am guilty.

“Yeah. Yeah.” I whisper. “Um. So you know how I’ve got bipolar disorder, right?”

He hums in acknowledgement.

“So, there’s this thing called a mixed episode. At least—that’s what my therapist says.” my voice is muffled. “And. You know mania. And you know depression. So a mixed episode is both.”

“Okay.” he murmurs, telling me to keep going.

“And—and they really, really suck. When I took all those pills—that was a mixed episode. When I went insane flying to Chicago that one time, that was one, too.”

“Why?”

I thought for a second. “‘cause your mind, I don’t know. It has complete control. So you say something to mask the silence but you hate yourself for saying it. Like another level of self aware.”

He only hugs me tighter. “It’s not that bad, though, right? You’ve got your pills—and therapy—and everything, right?” he sounds anxious.

“Yes, Patrick. I’m okay. It’s just tough, right now, is all.” I sigh, pulling back. “There’s no cure.”

“Can I help?” he asks softly. I almost break down again. He is a good friend. The best friend.

I shrug, falling back into him. “Dunno.” I mumble into his shirt. “You’re the best, ‘trick.”

He laughs. I push closer, trying to follow the sound, as if I could crawl into it or something and live there forever.

“Wish my brain wasn’t so fucked up.”

“I think everyone’s brain is a little fucked up. Part of being alive.”

“I guess,” I reply, “But maybe I’d like a brain that didn’t tell me I were better of dead.”

“You wanna call M?”

“Nah.” I whisper. “She’s busy.”

“No, Pete, she loves you. Call her.”

So I do. I’m standing in the corner, Patrick on the computer again. I’m listening to my own breathing through the phone until she picks up.

“Pete?” she asks. Her voice is soft, and tired.

“Sorry.” I mutter. “I know you’re doing stuff in Seattle—“

“I don’t care.” she interrupts gently. “What do you need?”

“Um. To hear your voice.” I whisper. She’s worried now.

“What—what’s going on, Pete?”

“I’m, uh, I’m having a rough day.” I confess, scratching the back of my neck as I lean against the wall.

“Oh no... what happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay.” I sniffle. “Patrick’s here. He’s...” I glance across the room. Angel. “He’s the best.”

“That’s good, baby.” she murmurs. I smile sadly.

“I love you,” I offer. She breathes a laugh.

“I love you more, Pete.”

She hangs up and I stand there like an idiot, phone pressed against my face still with the end-tone still beeping. I can’t be bothered to move until Patrick calls my name.

“Yeah?” I reply, turning around.

“You feel okay now?” he sounds nervous. I nod.

“Yes, yeah. Yeah.” I assure. He bites his lip.

“I don’t wanna be this guy but...” he hesitates. “I’m worried about you.”

That off-key anxiety that always shoots through me when people say that comes back for a moment, then I sigh. “I’m worried about me, too.” I say honestly. Quietly.

“You—you wanna stay at my place until—until you feel okay?” he asks. “I mean, I know M and Saint are in Seattle, and Bronx and everyone... you sure the empty house isn’t getting to you?”

“I don’t know.” I murmur. “I don’t wanna, like, intrude on you and your family.”

“Dude, it’s fine. E’s not even in town, and she took the kids, too. You can totally stay.”

I read his face—he’s being serious. I grin softly. “You sure?”

 

—

I am sitting in my car in Patrick’s driveway. I don’t remember how I got here.

I have stayed at his house for the past few days, but today seems different, and everything in my brain feels a little off. I’m shaking but I’m not sure why.

I squint out at the city; the house is on a hill, and it overlooks the great Los Angeles basin. It’s dark, some ungodly hour but the city’s still awake. And so am I. But I don’t twist the key, I don’t start the ignition, I just sit. I am so lonely.

I try not to think of what I could’ve done if Patrick hadn’t invited me over, kept me under a quiet watch. I don’t want to know.

My therapist will be disappointed.

Something moves behind me, in the direction of the house. I turn my head; it’s Patrick. He looks like and angel or something.

Now he’s walking to the car, and standing in front of the driver’s door, where I am. He looks sad.

“Open the door.” he says, though I only see his mouth moving. I’m not sure why.

My shaking hands flick the lock and he pulls the handle. The cold night air hits me.

“What happened?” he whispered, looking up at me through big, sad eyes, They’re blue, like the ocean or something. I blink.

For some reason, my mouth can’t form words. I can’t move except for the subtle shaking.

“Hey, y-you’re crying.” he murmurs, brushing what seems to be a tear off my face. I blink again.

“I am?” I force out, surprised at how unsteady my voice is.

He nods. “You weren’t in the guest room when I woke up.” he says quietly. “Why-why are you out here? What are you doing?”

I shrug numbly. “Dunno.” I breathe, pressing the heels of my hands under my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.” my voice shakes.

“Hey, it’s okay. You—you wanna come back inside? I’m gonna, like, freeze to death out here.” he huffs, but it masks real worry.

I shake my head, though. I can feel the tears now but I don’t care. I need to go somewhere, I need to breathe the nightlife, like a cigarette, because, for some reason, it feels like my last chance.

I try not to think too hard about that.

He sighs and slips into the passenger seat. He is a good friend.

“Where are we going?” he asks. I shrug.

“Anywhere.”

—

I’m driving down the 5, headed straight to downtown. I don’t know why.

I roll the window down and stick my arm out.

He sits back anyways, lets me take the wheel—literally—on this one, though he looks nervous.

The tall buildings outshine the stars themselves but not in a good way; this city wasn’t born starless.

I think to myself that maybe I really am going crazy, or that maybe I really have been my whole life, and I’m just now beginning to realize it. The california city lights are too heavy for my midwest eyes. I belong somewhere I have never belonged.

I am watching as the buildings and faded neon fly past my open window. I am thinking about nothing and everything all at once. Patrick only looks scared.

I ask him why.

“I’m not scared.” he murmurs. I roll my eyes, but I’m bored of this conversation already. Not of him, but of fear. I am tired of fear, because it has owned me. Fears hiding inside of other fears and suddenly I’m done, suddenly I do not care anymore. Fear can fuck itself.

I live in the nightlife. I live in the dark corners of my own mind. I live in my own ideas. I am a dreamer.

Dreamers don’t make it far in this world but I am thinking it’s not because we can’t, it’s because we don’t really want to. Dreamers are a dying breed, the kind of kids who never grew out of their artistic and sad and twisted view on life. Never grew up. Stuck in a permanent sertraline haze.

“Are you a dreamer?” I ask. He looks confused. I know the answer even if he doesn’t; he’s just like me. Just a bit more stitched together.

“I don’t know, Pete.” he sounds tired.

More silence. I stop in front of Chinatown, the little sub-city glowing red and asleep. Behind me are the modern stone monoliths, and in front of me is a little misfit town in the center of metropolis. I think about that for a while, and Patrick asks me what I’m doing.

I shrug. “Thinking.” I reply honestly.

“About what?”

“I don’t really fit in here, huh.”

“What do you mean...?”

“I’ve never fit in in a place like this.”

“Place like what, Pete?” he’s exhausted.

“Los Angeles. Earth, too, maybe.”

Patrick tries to read my face but I know he won’t get anything. No one does when I get like this.

I can’t even begin to explain what’s going on.

He tries to ask anyways. He really sounds scared now, but he isn’t scared of me. He’s scared for me.

“Please, Pete.” he’s whispering. “Look, look at me.”

I do. My eyes are hazy and unfocused and he knows it, he can see what kind of state I’m in now.

“Listen. You’re going to get into the passenger seat, and I’m going to drive us home.” he says softly. I nod numbly, eye glazed and sad all over again.

After we switch spots he starts driving. He’s driving away from Chinatown, the lifeless glow fading and instantly replaced with the haze of modern metropolis. Flashing neon blends together outside my window and I feel myself unraveling, coming apart at the seams. Everything is out of place, not where it’s supposed to be. I am not where I am supposed to be.

We’re stopped at an empty stoplight now. It’s all quiet but my head is so loud. It’s deafening. All I hear is my own pulse.

Something snaps inside me, like I’ve bent under the pressure for so long, and now I’ve given out.

And I’m so tired, the kind of tired that can’t be cured by sleep.

The water mains burst behind my eyes.

I lose it, completely and entirely. It’s like I’ve woken up, from some kind of comatose, and found myself somewhere unfamiliar and terrifying and it’s like I’m learning to walk or breathe.

I’ve been breathing the west desert air for almost half my life and I’m losing everything that feels like home. In the middle of metropolitan purgatory, I fall apart, truly and completely, for the first time in longer than I can even remember.

Patrick panics and pulls to the side of the road.

Hot, salty tears pour down my cheeks. My pulse roars in my ears and I can hear Patrick’s muffled voice. He’s saying something comforting but I’m too far gone for that.

Everything is blurry and static and I can hear Patrick’s door slamming, then him yanking open my door.

I fall into his arms on instinct, face buried in his jacket as the storm rages inside my head.

Everything hurts. I am so, so tired and it’s all too much and not enough all at once. I’m shaking, I know, but I’m too far out of my head to feel it.

“Let go.” I hear Patrick whisper. “It’s okay, baby.”

But it isn’t okay. It has never been okay; I can see that now. I’m a dead end, a crash just waiting to happen. I can hardly breathe.

I am thinking we should not make it through the night. I was right before; kids like me aren’t supposed to make it this far. I can see that, now, too. I’m shaking, crying harder than I have ever in my life. All I see is the deep blue of Patrick behind my eyelids and the red of fear or anger or whatever else this feeling is. Somehow it makes purple.

Empty sobs fill my ears. After a while, there is nothing left for me to cry out. But it still hurts.

Patrick is still here. He’s rubbing my back rhythmically, and he’s humming something. I almost break down again but I hold myself together.

“Don’t speak.“ he whispers, when he sees the sobs come to a stop. I nod, but only because I don’t think I can speak. My head is ringing.

He keeps talking. “I’m gonna get you home, baby. You’ll be safe, okay? Shh.” he moves to close the door and it’s all I can do to hold on tighter, silently telling him to stay, for just a bit longer. He sighs.

“We need to go home.” he whispers. “I—I need to get you home.”

I nod slowly and he shuts my door. He slips into the driver’s seat.

Then we’re driving. Patrick keeps swerving on the road because he’s so tired, or scared or _something_ , and I think it’s a miracle that we made it home alive. He staggers out of the car. Now I’m guilty.

“I’m sor—“

“No, shut up.” he huffs. “This isn’t your fault.”

I have a pounding headache. Everything aches but now I’m mostly just numb, and utterly, completely drained.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

—

I can’t sleep, surprisingly. Or maybe it’s not surprising. Either way, I’m staring at the cracked paint in the ceiling until I see the soft glow of early morning creep its way into the room.

That was manic depression in its rawest, truest form. I can recognize that now, after it's all said and done; now that the sun is rising.

I'm only scared of what comes after the happiness, or madness or whatever you want to call it. I'm only scared of the crash and all the crashes that might come after. I'm a broken roller coaster, ready to fly off the wheels at every turn, and I can never get off, never check out.

Still, even through the fear, I have an interesting feeling, that maybe it will all turn out okay, that one day I'll find my bridge to stability. Today I’ve emerged unscathed; with a new sense of hope, because I know deep down I will probably never have a more depressing night in my life. And if I do, well, I hope God pulls my number. Draws my card, before I do it myself.

 

"My reaper is not grim  
Because he knows I never sleep, never wait  
And that I fear only him.” -PW

**Author's Note:**

> This is the poem that inspired the title and that last bit. Anyways, I’m glad it’s 2017. Also, I’d appreciate it if you left kudos, or preferably, a comment! Thank you so much for reading!


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